Lucid
by Yeaomi
Summary: Four Arkham inmates give their different takes on Gotham and what the Batman really stands for. I won't tell you who they are, it is up to you to decide. Short and dark. Influenced by the Arkham Interview files from the game.


Author's Note: I give you four brief interview style accounts as told by four different Arkham inmates. I won't tell you who is talking, that is up to you to speculate at and decide for yourselves (though I do have four in mind). See if you don't start to hear their voices and get a clear picture as you read each one. Please review!

Normal disclaimer applies.

**Lucid**

**Session 1: Nightmare**

Did you ever notice how the sun never really shines in Gotham? The city spreads out like some vast god, reaching up into the sky and swallowing the light. The rays that slip past the jagged grin of the skyscrapers are faded as if filtered through a worn down lens.

The creatures of the day with their painted smiles, pressed suits, tarnished pearls, and faded dresses all move boldly through the city like clean cut figments of a deranged mind. The sweat of the hard working man is greedily soaked up by the ever parched streets while the well off keep the rats plump and festering.

When the sun goes down, the figments fade away and the blood flows freely through the beating heart of the city.

Us creatures of the night, we are but dreams; wild and nightmarish dreams that slowly pick away at the psyche of this god. The Batman is the keeper of these dreams. Like an ancient guardian he keeps the demons at bay. When the city moans and a cold sweat breaks out across its brow, the Dark Knight rises up from the shadows and restores the sanity.

This city, this slumbering god of old, created us all. As she tossed and turned at night, the Batman was molded and given life. His shadow sweeps across the city, gently easing her back to sleep as his beacon shines like a night light in those rare moonless skies.

With her new found protector, her dreams became darker. Twisting and distorting into whole new nightmares that seemed to hide in the shadow of the bat.

We were all created here in the dark. Molded by the ancient spidery fingers of this god as she tries to smooth out the cracks and lines. We are her dreams, nightmarish and beautiful.

We were created to protect him as much as he protects us. We keep the shadows at bay as he chases down the demons. With out us, he would become a hellish nightmare from which there is no waking.

There is no saving Gotham just as there is no saving the Bat. He doesn't want to be saved.

**Session 2: Death**

There's a superstition going around that claims that the Bat is ageless. Not even human, but a creature forged from horrors untold. Others claim that there has been more than one. That the original Bat died ages ago and others have risen up to carry the demons on their shoulders. Why else would he run around with all those young kids? Kill one and another seems to spring up out of the pile of bones before the blood even starts to congeal.

But that isn't quite right. It's not quite wrong either.

No, there has only been _one_ Batman. Born with the city, he will age and slowly die with the city. He will never stop. He can never stop. His body will crack and crumble like the gothic buildings. He will bleed till he runs dry, a husk of what once was as he fades away into the stone-works.

The man will fail and die. Either by some stray bullet, a lowly mug getting in a lucky punch, a crumbling ledge, or even by his own body betraying him and giving out.

That would be a kind death. Even the most prolonged beating would be a merciful death for the man that is Batman. He would look up at his city as his vision darkens, the street running red as his precious blood is soaked up by the aged and decrepit roots snaking their ways through the crumbling concrete. The city would weep and the night would stretch on seemingly forever in morning of its lost companion.

Nothing is ever that easy. He will out live us all. Oh, we all go on about how we will kill the Bat. We concoct these grand schemes and elaborate farces to bring him down and destroy the man behind the mask.

He plays our game, humoring us like children trying to get daddy's attention. He catches us when we fall, he brings us in when we fail, and he comforts us when we suffer.

He will watch us age and slow, our feeble attempts more and more desperate as our minds start to wander and fail. He will wince as our bones break and our hearts burst. One by one, we will disappear. Some may quit the game and move on with him always standing in their shadow watching as they wither away into obscurity. Others will die locked in their cells laughing at some half remembered dream of glory.

But the Bat will remain. Solitary and ageless as all he cared for slowly crumbles away, forgotten and uncared for.

Then, and only then, will he be grated death. A death of a man that no one will feel. Just an old man, alone in his bed, and nothing more.

There will always be a Batman. All his kiddies will make sure of that. Those that don't fall in crumpled bloody heaps or grow bitter and cold will carry on his legend. The old ways will pass on and a new Gotham will rise up with new shiny toys and new shiny Batmen, all with dreams of justice and vengeance for some pitiful half remembered cause.

There will always be a Batman. There will always be the legend of a man pushed over the edge one time too many. There will always be a shadow in the night sweeping down like a demon to right what ever wrong had been done to them time and time again.

But there will never be another like the first. No other could ever carry the very soul of Gotham like he could. When that old pathetic man dies, choking on his last breaths, a piece of Gotham will die with him.

How will you know when the Bat has finally slipped away into the darkness? I think it will be easy to tell.

On that day, I think Gotham might be just a little brighter.

**Session 3: Life**

What created the Batman? That is the greatest of all questions.

No one really cares who the Bat is. How boring would it be to find a regular man lurking behind that mask? Just a face and a name playing dress up when the sun goes down. Were it anyone else, they would be judged to be living some queer lifestyle that would land them in Arkham before they had time to adjust their cowl.

No, it's not the man that fascinates and confounds the smartest of individuals, it's the cause. What horrific event drove him to become a demon that hunts down injustice? What childhood trauma possessed him to seek out the level of training and skill he required to be better than any other creature of the night? What manner of psychosis exists that can let a man of his fearsome build still hold down an ordinary life for so many years without being discovered?

I think the mystery of who the Batman is has already been solved on both sides on the fence. To learn his identity is hardly enough these days. We could lash out at his home, his family, his day life. We could destroy the man, but the Bat would remain ever fiercer. To truly know the Bat, one must know what created him.

But then, one must wonder, would that be enough? Perhaps we are all going about this the wrong way. The man is the real mystery. Who is the face that Batman puts on when the sun goes down? What smile could hoodwink an entire population so readily?

Is the population really that full of dullards and naïve supporters that sleep better at night just because there is some night light plastered across the sky? Is it a choice? Do we choose not to know who he is? To not notice the direction his car rumbles off to each morning? To mentally pick out his build from a lineup of strangers in the street each day?

Is it fear? Is it faith? Why does Gotham allow this shadow in the night to exist? Even when the public cries out that it is his fault we exist! It is him that created the masked vandals that blow up our homes and shoot our sons and corrupt the minds of our innocent! Even when the outcry demands that he be brought in and locked away with those he created, why is he allowed to exist?

This is what tantalizes us each time the sun goes down. We wait, spines tingling in anticipation as we wait for the first signs that all is not well in Gotham. Will tonight be the night he doesn't show? Is he laying in a ditch somewhere bleeding out? Is he curled in his bed, having thrown in the towel? Or will tonight be the night that he finally crosses that line?

So many questions which may never be answered; but we can't let that deter us. We _must_ continue to hunt him. We must persist in our struggle to know, '_What is the Batman'_?

Answers are boring. Dull. Meaningless. You could have all the answers in the world and still know nothing.

Questions keep the mind alive.

That is his greatest triumph. His very existence allows us to _live_.

**Session 4: Father**

Isn't it funny how the Bat never gives up on a man? No matter how many times we try to take him down, no matter how many times we fall, he's always there to pick us back up again.

I can't count the number of times I've been 'rehabilitated'. You walk out the door and you know he's there, watching from up high like one of the stone angels or gargoyles that used to line the roofs of Gotham.

You think he's there to spook you. To warn you not to mess up this time. That he'll be watching you and he's ready to pounce the second you screw up.

You do your best out there with the normal people. You go about your boring mundane life, walking past the old shops you used to rob or blow up without casting them a second glance. You cringe and turn off the news, not wanting to see your old cell mates running loose like a bunch of lunatics.

You call up your girl and apologize. '_Baby, this time is different. I've changed! I'm rehabilitated!'_ And you wince as she hangs up on you. She won't go down that path again. She knows better. It's only a matter of time before you let the pressure set in.

You're sweating as you try to get your job back. How the hell are they supposed to trust you? You're digging your own hole and you feel everyone watching and waiting for you to fall in. Old friends pretend they don't see you and your girl has a new squeeze.

Finally you snap. You're screaming in the dark, 'You happy now? Is this what you wanted? What are you waiting for?' Finally he swoops down, fists flying as always.

He will beat you till your teeth spatter across the floor and your lungs wheeze through a broken and swollen nose, and damn if it doesn't feel good. Each hit like a therapy those quacks at Gotham can't even begin to understand.

It's not till it's all over and you're taking that long silent ride back to Arkham that you realize he wasn't waiting for you to fail. He was waiting for you to _let go_.

Passing through the gates always felt like coming home. I bet he feels the same way too. He becomes a different man as you're walking down that long hallway.

His hand on your arm feels just a little lighter, his eyes a little sadder. There's always that lingering touch just before they come to take you away. That silent, _'Maybe Next time.'_

And God if I don't believe it each and every time I let him down.

_Maybe next time._

How the hell can he continue to believe that? How can he face being let down so many times and still hold out that trusting hand as he pulls you up from the floor? How can someone walk the edge every single damn night and not fall over that line and join the rest of us?

I wonder if he's ever needed a 'next time'. Was someone there to help scrape him off the floor and pat him on the back? Who does he have to disappoint?

Then you look up in the sky and see that goddamned signal. A beacon that cuts through the darkest of nights to always guide him home.

And who is it that flips that switch? Who's always been there to make sure he doesn't fall off that razors edge?

Gordon's always been the true hero of Gotham. Maybe he wasn't there for us, but he was there for him when no one else was.

At the end of the day, it's Gordon that pats him on the shoulder in a job well done and a hushed 'Maybe next time.'

Without Gordon, the Bat would be just like the rest of us. It would be him in here waiting for that next brief moment of lucidity.

Where was my Gordon when everything came crashing down around me? Where was my beacon in the night as I wandered lost and alone? I'd be a better man today if I'd just had that guiding hand keeping me on the right and true.

I'd be a fool if I believed that. We'd all be fools if we really thought we didn't have someone there waiting for us and hoping beyond all reason and sanity that someday we'll be able to walk away from this personal hell our lives have become. The Batman has always been there and will always be there no matter how many times he has to dig me out again.

Where would I be without the Bat there to offer that little bit of hope each and every time that maybe someday, things will be better?

It's all we can ever hope for. A man doesn't live through this and come out with the option to still hope for a 'normal life'. A return to normalcy is something we all dream of while heavily medicated and locked away.

All we've got is this little bit of hope that maybe one day we'll wake up and someone will be there. Someone to hold out their hand and say, 'It's alright. We'll do better next time, won't we?'

And I believe it every time. Every time he walks away past the judging eyes of the doctors and the screaming taunts of the other cellmates and the intimidated shameful glances of the cops and 'normal' people. Every damn time he's drawn to that light and Gordon's there to whisper in that soft tone, 'It's alright. We'll do better next time.'

And you know there will be a next time with him there hoping it will be the last time.


End file.
